


A Little Touch

by Rubynye



Series: Works in StoatSandwich's 4F Universe (aka, the Adventures of Steve Rogers, Military Prostitute) [10]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Prostitution, Crossover, Dream Sex, Dreamsharing, M/M, Non-Serum Steve Rogers/Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes | Shrinkyclinks, Partner Swapping, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-23
Updated: 2016-12-23
Packaged: 2018-09-11 08:49:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8972668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rubynye/pseuds/Rubynye
Summary: Steve and Bucky meet Bucky and Steve.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Dira Sudis (dsudis)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dsudis/gifts), [potofsoup](https://archiveofourown.org/users/potofsoup/gifts).



"I did _what_?" Steve asks in disbelief, while beside him Bucky breathes a stripped-down amused noise.

Across the featureless soft room, Steve's counterpart/former self/alternate self folds his spindly arms and lifts his sharp chin, and Steve remembers how that felt, summoning defiance to stiffen his shoulders and spine. Master Sergeant Barnes flashes the other Rogers that proud fond look Steve remembers feeling like a kiss on his head, and looks back up at Steve and Bucky as -- Private? but the tabs are all wrong -- Rogers repeats, "I joined the military as a prophylactic auxiliary. I served my country." 

"As a _prostitute_ ," Steve chokes out. Sergeant Barnes shrugs. Bucky shrugs back. Steve _remembers_ how that determination felt on his face. He can't ---

 _No, be honest, Steve_. The problem is, he _can_ imagine signing up to be a military prostitute, all too easily. He signed his body over too, for one man to experiment upon rather than however many to enjoy. He would've done that too if his country had needed it from him.

The other Barnes, however. "And you were _okay_ with this?" Steve demands of him. Bucky tore a stripe off him _and_ found a way to beat his ass red, quite literally, for volunteering to be experimented on. "You'd've _killed_ me," he adds to his Bucky, who tilts his head just enough to shift his long hair, a tiny crease edging his mouth.

"We weren't exclusive," Bucky says, in that low dry voice he uses now. Steve inhales, to say _that's not the point_ \--

"A couple of the guys were disappointed he was a pro- _boy_ ," Barnes answers, almost blandly, familiar quiet amusement. "But he proved himself, over and over. Best damn pro in the service, and a better soldier than most." He looks down at Rogers, who looks up at him, shining at each other more openly than Steve and Bucky dared back then when not alone.

"Not a better soldier than you," Rogers says worshipfully, and Barnes's cheeks pinken as he grins, glancing away like Rogers is a too-bright light. Like Bucky would whenever Steve praised him.

But, _but_. "So you just let him sign --" _his ass away_ Steve doesn't say to this different Sergeant Barnes, who looks surprised by the question.

"Like I could stop _you_ ," Bucky mutters at Steve's side.

Rogers's eyes narrow, fringed by those long girlish lashes Steve used to hate having. "There was nobody _to_ stop me when I signed up. You two knew each other before the war?"

Steve turns to meet Bucky's surprised gaze, silver-blue eyes alight in his still face. "When did we meet, Buck?"

"Don't even remember." Steve isn't even sure himself, sometimes. In kindergarden? Before? He looks over and finds their doubles staring at each other just the same way. "When we were kids, real little kids."

"Runts of the litter," Bucky adds, and Steve can hear the smile he doesn't see.

Rogers' lower lip juts out, like he doesn't know how pretty it makes him look. But then Steve never did. "Lucky," Sergeant Barnes mutters, eyebrows tilting low. "Goddamn lucky, you two, been asshole buddies your whole lives. If I'd known Steve when --" He breaks off, closing his eyes. No, looking down at Rogers, who tilts his head back a little, letting himself be looked at. 

"He didn't get you off the table," Bucky rumbles. "You got yourself off it." Steve shuts his eyes on a pang through his chest -- Bucky hadn't really needed him, then --

"Something clawed its way off that table," the other Barnes rumbles identically; Steve's eyes pop open, and he sees Rogers watching Barnes with clear, intent eyes. "Didn't feel like it was me, like I was still _human_ , till after Steve joined us."

Bucky nods, touching his shoulder to Steve's. "Know how that is. Sometimes the only way I could remember I wasn't a monster was by looking at his punk face."

"How'd you see it that far up?" Rogers asks, and Steve remembers the taste of that snide tone of voice. The _deja vu_ is almost dizzying. "Captain, you're me but three times the size. What the fuck happened?"

"Did you hear of Project Rebirth?" Steve doubts it, and hopes Hodges isn't what passes for Captain America where they're from, but it's a place to start. "Professor Erskine developed a process to maximize human potential."

"Erskine, huh?" Barnes sounds conversational, but he shivers, and Rogers leans back against him like a spindly buttress. "Zola mentioned him." Steve feels a similar tremor rattle down Bucky's shoulder, and presses his own to it. "Said it was a pity, a _shame_ Schmidt had him killed. Guess he made it out, in your -- your world."

"For a little while." Steve remembers the Professor's finger tapping over his heart, how his eyes fell shut and his hand fell limp as his last breath rattled out. "Hydra caught up to him, but not before he created me."

"Before he enlarged you," Bucky amends. " _You_ made you."

"Sounds just like Rogers," Barnes comments, and Steve watches Rogers's cheeks go red as he feels his own warm to burning. When he can look up he finds Bucky looking not at him but at Rogers, who blushes harder and juts out his chin again as he returns Bucky's gaze.

Barnes looks between them, too, and smirks. "See something familiar?"

"That blush," Bucky says. "I remember it." Steve watches his Bucky look at the man Steve used to be, watches memories dislodge from the crevices of his crumpled mind.

Rogers's eyebrows lift. Steve's can't possibly be that thick. "Wouldn't you remember everything if you knew me, I mean him, your whole life?" 

This is Bucky's story to tell, or not. Steve watches him shake his head, the sad ghost of a smile curling his lips. "Zola got me back," he says, and as Rogers's eyes go round Barnes's press shut. "Steve thought I was dead. Zola wiped my mind, built my arm, turned me into -- this weapon."

Steve clenches his jaw against saying _it wasn't your fault_. Rogers reaches to his Barnes, a moment's brush of fingers, then steps forward, pacing across blank space to face Bucky. "Had a rough time, huh," he says, more gently than Steve could have expected of his own voice. "You look like my Buck does on bad nights." He reaches forward fearlessly, sliding his thin fingers between Bucky's metal ones. "i was so jealous of you two, knowing each other your whole lives, of him being all big and strong, but... if my being a pro-boy somehow saved my Sergeant from _this_..."

Bucky stares down unblinking at Rogers, who looks up at him just as steadily. His flesh arm rises, wavers, and wraps around Rogers' shoulders exactly where Steve remembers its press, and Bucky pulls Rogers against his chest in a tight hug. The other Barnes takes a step forwards, eyes widening in alarm, but Rogers sighs and flattens his cheek on Bucky's chest, pressing into the hug. Being as comforting as possible. It's a little unnerving, watching his other self be good at such an unfamiliar skill, but Steve's never seen any point to doing less than his best, it makes sense that his alternate self would have the same ethos.

A movement draws his eye, Bucky's hair rustling as he looks straight at Steve over Rogers's head. "Don't you dare," he mutters, and Steve helplessly smiles.

And goes right ahead. He'd've done more than suck a few hundred dicks to keep Bucky out of Hydra's clutches. "But Buck. If I could've spared you --" 

"Done is done." Bucky tilts his head, curling in to press his cheek to Rogers's carefully parted hair.

Steve's got more to say, but Barnes calls him, "Captain," and beckons him over. He goes, leaving Rogers to take care of Bucky, who's hugging him with both arms now, eyes shifting under closed lids like he's dreaming. 

"Master Sergeant," Steve answers. Smiling, Barnes reaches out for a handshake, but when their hands meet an electric tingle passes between their palms, and Steve doesn't want to let go. 

Neither does Barnes, who hangs on as he touches his other hand's fingertips to Steve's cheek. "Same face," he says, "but I still didn't really believe it till that poor fella wearing mine looked at Steve like a dream. You really used to be him, didn't you."

"With a few less dance partners, yeah," Steve says, and Barnes laughs that same warm Bucky-laugh, the look in his eyes gone beyond ragged pain to a kind of scarred peace. 

"Same face, same sass, with all this muscle." Barnes shifts a little closer, a neat move familiar from a thousand memories. "What else is different?"

"Wanna see?" Steve says as brashly as he can, and Barnes shines a grin on him and gives him a kiss just as hard and sweet as he remembers.

* *** * 

Bucky is his name, and Steve's in his arms. This feels like a memory, like truth, the thin strong body in his embrace, the high-boned cheek pressed to his chest, the silky hair beneath his chin. He remembers following the tall Captain, fighting for him, kissing him in triumph and comfort, but this is his Steve, the one in his sweetest dreams, the wide smile and slender limbs and winglike shoulder blades beneath his hands.

Bucky looks down, expecting the dream to fade to nightmare, expecting nothing and finding his Steve looking fearlessly up at him, his shoulders pale and bare.

All of him bare and pale, pressed to Bucky's naked skin. This is the sweetest dream.

"Steve," Bucky says, and the name tastes new and familiar at once. Steve smiles up at him, like he did thousands of times, like he did from the depths of Bucky's scoured, shattered mind, that little curve of plump lips opening out to a bright crescent of teeth as Steve leans over him, bangs dangling over his forehead. The dream has shifted: Bucky's on his back, Steve a smudge of weight on his belly, fleecy softness surrounding them. At the edge of his vision the Steve of now, Captain Rogers, sits with his alternate, infinitely luckier self, but now Bucky is naked and laid out below his Steve, laid out for him, and he grips the moment and his lost lover with both hands, metal and skin.

"Steve," Bucky asks, or begs, or prays, and Steve leans down and kisses him. Those determined, soft lips, that sly stroking tongue. With his flesh hand, Bucky cradles the curve of Steve's skull, cornsilk hair slipping between his grateful fingers as Steve pulls back from the kiss, their lips smacking apart, to look at him with those beautiful blue eyes, wide and long-lashed and bottomless with wonder.

Bucky smiles, slowly, stiffly, unused muscles creaking in his cheeks. "Stevie," he sighs from the bottom of his heart, "Stevie, I need you, please. You gotta fuck me."

* *** * 

Steve will never get used to Bucky murmuring, "fuck me." He'll never get used to his heart doing a barrel roll in his chest. And he'll sure as hell never get used to basking in the silvery-blue light of Bucky's eyes, as Bucky looks at Steve's scrawniness like he hung the moon and painted all the stars.

That goes double for this Bucky, scruff-chinned and scar-seamed, a thicket of raised  
twisting lines converging on the shoulder where a metal arm replaces the one Steve's slept beneath for over a year now. He's still not quite sure how, but Steve knows, sure as he knows his own name, that this shaggy haired man with pain engraved around his haunted eyes paid the price for his other self's transformation into a towering stack of healthy muscle. If his service kept his Bucky from this fate, Steve would suck off every man jack of the US Military twice over just to guarantee it.

But right now he lies on a hard-muscled belly, his head cradled in a long-fingered hand, his heart beating against his breastbone like a trapped bird. He takes a deep breath, and unfurls his smile, and tells this bottomless-eyed Bucky, "Of course, pal. Of course. I got you."

Bucky slumps flat, exhaling a soft deep sigh, and Steve just has to look at him for a moment. He'll never get used to this either, all of Bucky's powerful body gone relaxed and easy before him. And this Bucky is even thicker with muscle, down his limbs and over his ribs, than Steve's sculptured Sergeant. Steve hopes he can remember and draw this vision when he's awake.

For now he shifts back a bit, sliding a hand over a firm curve of asscheek to dip in two fingers, and finds Bucky slick, grease over crinkled flesh, but -- the pattern's off, somehow. Steve glances down, and blinks at what he sees, radiating zigzags of shiny scars, one slippery under his thumb, the tender pucker almost easy beneath his longest fingertips. Not like his Bucky's literally tight ass at all. Steve stares at these signs of hard use, and wonders if his own ass looks like this.

"C'mon," Bucky rumbles, so deep the air vibrates over Steve's ribs. He looks up and finds this Bucky's mouth quirked sideways, not quite a grin, not really a smile. 

Steve knows how that face feels. "Yeah," he murmurs, leaning in, planting a hand beside Bucky's shaggy head to steady himself as he brushes their mouths together and Bucky sighs the littlest bit. "Yeah," he whispers over the tangled scars on his shoulder, running his lips along them like tracing rivers on a map, as he strokes circles in the slickness. Shimmying down to Bucky's abs, he kisses a granite-hard plane of muscle and feels it ease, pulls his tongue down the smooth skin where his Buck's treasure trail lies, all the way to the base of this Bucky's cock.

That wasn't what he was asked to do, though, so he just kisses lightly, between teasing and promises, up the length and over the little smooth scar before the velvety head. "I got you," Steve murmurs there, brushing his lips down the vein before sitting back, straightening his spine, getting ready to give it his all. He glances up again and finds Bucky's eyes closed, huge and deceptively still, his shaggy hair spread out around his beautiful scruffy face. "I got you, Buck," Steve tells him, and watches his quiet mouth curve into a smile, his flesh and metal hands relax at his sides. Steve spreads his grip to Bucky's columnar thighs, takes a deep breath as he prepares to put his back into it, and says, "I'm gonna take good care of you."

* *** * 

"You fuckin' would," Bucky gasps, laughing into the Captain's -- _Steve_ 's -- massive broad shoulder. "Smarter'n three of me and too dumb to ever run from a fight."

"Hey," Steve protests, broad hands tight at Bucky's waist, God, there's so much of him now, but he even tastes the same. "Hey, I've never been smarter than even one of you, and your me, I mean, your -- pro boy?" Bucky looks up -- _up_ , for goodness' sake -- into Steve's adorably puzzled face, squarer jaw and same plump lips, those long lashes, that sweet little line between his eyes. "He worships you," Steve tells him, about his other self, and Bucky feels heat bloom in his cheeks and curl over his ears. "Just like I did."

"Shut up," Bucky tells him, happiness still painfully vibrating his chest, and kisses Steve again, tugging him down to feel all that warm strength, more than his, pressed to him. What his Steve could've been. But his hands clench the same way on Bucky's sides, he exhales that same little disbelieving laugh when Bucky kisses his cheeks and nose and chin, his lashes flutter the same way under Bucky's lips, the same deliciousness in a bigger dish.

Bucky wants to suck him off, to feel those mighty thighs around his ears. It's a dream, why not? He opens his eyes as he pulls back to say so, glances over this Steve's shoulder, and can't help an almost reverent "Holy fuckign _shit_ " at what he sees. His Steve kneeling up, stick-thin and shockingly beautiful, between the other Barnes's massive thighs, flushed warm red from hairline to hips as he shoves home with a sweet little grunt, giving it nothing less than his all.

Bucky remembers receiving that, Steve gorgeously hot and heavy inside him even while draped featherlight on his belly or his back. He's only dared ask a few times, because Steve won't back off even when he's wheezing like hell and Bucky doesn't want to _kill_ him, but it's something else having Steve fuck him rather than the other way round, feeling all of Steve's familiar focus pressed into this unfamiliar inside-out pleasure. 

Meanwhile Captain Steve, seeing Bucky gape and stare, turns and mutters, "Mother Mary," like the sweet altar boy he's always been, as they watch Bucky's Steve, fierce and skinny and determined, fucking the other Barnes so hard his whole body shakes on each thrust, and there's a helluva lot of the man. He looks like someone pumped Bucky up like a tire and put him through the wringer. He looks like the plans Bucky could see in Zola's beady little eyes.

The other Barnes moans voluptuously, and Bucky blushes harder, knowing he's heard that sound out of his own mouth, while he's been inside Steve, with Steve inside him. This Steve turns his sinewy neck and looks at Bucky again with those same sky-deep eyes. "Guess they're getting along," he murmurs, and grins, and Bucky can't help grinning back.

"He must be me," Bucky adds, "my Steve knows just how to take care of him," and this Steve's smile constricts with pain, creasing his forehead as he touches Bucky's cheek with five light fingertips.

"He's doin' a better job than I did," Steve murmurs, and Bucky looks into his eyes for another moment, then lunges up and bites his lip, making him yelp a laugh and slam their mouths together. Bucky would tell this Steve, or God, or even Zola, that if it meant his Steve could be made over tall and strong and healthy, no more night coughs or asthma attacks or faints after a hard march, he'd pay whatever price it took, he'd give his left arm and take every straining inch of the pain he can see engraved into his counterpart.

But he knows Steve wouldn't let him say it, either of them, so he kisses this Steve instead, teeth and tongue and tonsil hockey. Wrapping an arm behind his mile-wide shoulders, hooking a leg over his hip to line them up, Bucky arches to rub their dicks together, sweet sparking friction, until he gets Steve to moan into the kiss. "C'mon," he growls, and feels Steve shudder all over, feeling it. "Come'n show me what you've got."

And this Steve tips Bucky onto his back, blanketing him with that big gorgeous body, hooks his elbows under Bucky's knees, and does.

* *** * 

Some time later, much later, Steve feels a footstep shake the firm-soft floor and eases open an eye, snuggling the rest of his face deeper into Barnes' tattooed, skin-warm left shoulder. Bucky stands there, looking easier, his arms full of floppy, sacked-out Auxiliary First Class Rogers.

Steve remembers how that felt, being carried in Bucky's strong arms, both before and after his transformation. He smiles, and Bucky... doesn't smile back, precisely, but his eyes are warm grey, crinkled at the corners, as he kneels softly and deposits Rogers onto Barnes' chest. Barnes sighs a little, curling his arm over Rogers, who snuggles in under his chin.

"Were we ever that ridiculous?" Bucky asks, almost lightly, as he lies down beside his counterpart, as he almost casually wraps his arm around both of them.

"All the time," Steve tells him, reaching across his double's knobby back to grasp Bucky's calloused hand. "Always."

* *** * 

Slowly coming to consciousness, Steve opens his eyes.

Time-blistered paint cracks off the ceiling above him. A blanket lies crumpled over a wooden floor below him. Afternoon light slants from a jagged hole in the blacked-out window across to the wall beside him. 

Another heavy nap in another shitty safe house. The hard floor is too relaxing. Steve pushes himself up to sitting, blinking sleep from his eyes, the sense-memory of a warm muscled shoulder fading from his cheek, and spares a moment to wonder how Bucky's keeping, before he shifts into a crouch and stands up. Time to move.

* *** * 

Steve realizes he's fallen asleep, and jerks awake. The shout outside the door is Private Haggerty announcing Last Call, the scratchy press against his face is a fold of blanket. He picks his head up off the cot, realizing he conked out after the last marine left, and knuckles sleep from his eyes as he listens to little cries and whimpers and grunts from the rooms all around his.

Bucky's sleeping smile lingers in Steve's drowsy mind, the last image from his extremely weird dream, and, fuck, he can't wait to be done today, to wash up and put himself back together and walk out to salute his Sergeant waiting for him. A heavy knock on the door makes him shake his head at himself, getting his mind back on his duties, but as he sits up, takes a deep breath and calls, "Come on in," Steve allows himself one more thought of how much he's looking forward to going home with Bucky.

* *** * 

Nothing in particular wakes Bucky up. One moment he's warmly asleep, the next his eyes are open and full of the darkness. But he's still warm, a slender welcome body tucked to his side, and his ears are full of Steve's slow sleeping breathing.

He turns just enough to look at Steve in the soft faint light, the hair draped over his forehead and his eyes huge under their silky lids. He remembers moments from his strange dream, Steve's shoulders broader than his own, Steve flushed and glowing red as Bucky watched him fuck a scarred, stacked version of himself. 

Maybe tomorrow he'll bring the most fortifying lunch he can score and ask if Steve'd like to fuck him. For now he turns onto his side, wrapping his left arm around Steve, fingers spread across the delicate arches of his ribs, and goes back to sleep holding his Steve close to his heart.

* *** * 

Pain is familiar, cold almost a friend, the first breath searing as steam as it shoves open his contracted lungs. Fine shudders overtake him, rattling cell against cell, bone against joint, his teeth clacking as the shivering intensifies. He clenches them in disremembered memory as every muscle cramps and twitches until its fibers align, as the shuddering reaches its crescendo and begins to die away, as the saturating agony fades slowly to soreness and heals away to nothing.

Bucky is warm, alive, awake. Bucky eases open his eyelids, sticky with sleep, and his first sight is that little furrow between big blue eyes, is Steve's impassioned, beautiful face.


End file.
